


Trying To Catch Your Breath

by lapsus_calami



Series: Hope For The Hopeless [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Post-Nogitsune, stigmatization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 16:20:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7764694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fallout from Stiles’ possession by the Nogitsune seemed to have no bounds. Beyond the general maiming and killing of the townspeople and the havoc he had wrecked on the pack, Stiles kept discovering other impacts of the possession on his life in areas he never would have expected at first. People talked about him, people stared at him, people treated him differently, and somehow he’d gone from an A-student with behavioral issues to failing all his classes and considered mentally unstable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trying To Catch Your Breath

**Trying To Catch Your Breath**

Sometimes Stiles counted his heartbeat. The world would just fade away, easing into the background until all Stiles could hear and feel was the steady thump, thump, thump of his heart against his sternum. It was a hyperawareness of being alive, a hyperawareness that overwhelmed him at times until his entire existence narrowed down to the beating of his heart and the rush of air into his lungs.

Sometimes it was a painful realization. Every beat would pump life he didn’t deserve through his veins. Every breath of air would send a searing surge of energy through his limbs. An undeniable urge to move, to run, to flee. It was a constant warring state between riding the high of being alive and managing the burning desire to cease existing.

And sometimes it consumed him.

* * *

“Each of you with a grade at or below a C average in this class,” Mrs. Sheridan said slapping Stiles’ grade sheet on his desk with a resounding smack of judgment that shook him from his thoughts, “need to have a parent sign it and turn it in by this Friday.”

Stiles blinked and tugged the sheet closer scanning over the grades that turned his stomach before finally focusing on the current average. Well, it wasn’t a C. Unfortunately it wasn’t an A or a B either. Stiles wasn’t even sure it qualified as a D. Oh, no, no, there was the little judgmental F sitting right there at the top. He swallowed making an effort to keep his hands from trembling as he carefully folded the sheet in half before sliding it in his folder next to the two from first and second period. They were a D and another F respectively.

He should be paying attention to the teacher. Or at least making an effort to, and he had tried. But somewhere along the line her voice had been drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears, and he’d found himself counting along with the sound instead of listening to the lecture.

It didn’t really matter anyway; Stiles had zero clue what she was talking about. It was something about the building blocks of proteins and the last two days had been filled with straight up gibberish written on the board that everyone except Stiles seemed to understand. Stiles wasn’t sure when but somewhere in the last week he’d unconsciously decided to give up.

Somehow he was failing every one of his classes. He had only the vaguest recollection of anything from any of them for the last month, and even the time before that was scattered and overshadowed by the stress of alpha werewolves, ritualistic sacrifices, his dad missing, and the whole being dead for hours in a tub of ice thing. It was with an unfamiliar sense of shame that Stiles sank deep into his seat every time a teacher called on him, flushed as his classmates glanced at him from the corner of their eyes.

It was no secret that he freaked out in class, went missing for awhile, and had a short stint in Eichen House before dropping off the radar for several days again. Didn’t matter if there was an expectancy of privacy, people talked, rumors grew, and in Stiles’ case most of the far-fetched rumors were approximations of the truth.

Coupled with his already abysmal state of social standing even before all that Stiles would be lucky if his social reputation ever recovered.

* * *

Sometimes he found himself stalling out on even the simplest of decisions. And the simplest of decisions sometimes felt as insurmountable as climbing Mount Everest. His dad could ask what he wanted to eat, and Stiles should have an answer but he never did. 

Less than a week ago there was a demon in his head. Before that there were alpha werewolves and an evil druid was trying to murder his dad and his best friend's mom and his other friend's dad. He'd drowned in an ice bath for sixteen hours. His friends were dying, people were being slaughtered, the entire town had practically descended into chaos. 

It seemed surreal that in a given moment his biggest concern could be what kind of cereal to buy.

Like it shouldn’t even matter after everything he’d been through, but he still had a choice to make—Cheerios or Frosted Flakes?

* * *

Stiles stared at the boxes in his hands silently and meticulously deliberating between the family size box of Cheerios and the generic brand of Frosted Flakes. Technically the Cheerios were healthier but the family size box was almost twice the price of the same size box of generic Frosted Flakes. With the amount of money his dad had shelled out for him lately he probably needed to be a little more conscious of how much he spent grocery shopping. Frosted Flakes it was then.

“Are you sure?” someone whispered, hushed and tinged with a bit of disbelief.

Stiles blinked surreptitiously glancing over his shoulder at the two women by the shelves behind him.

“Positive. He was there,” the other woman hissed. “I’m telling you it doesn’t make any sense.”

He swallowed heavily dumping the box of Cheerios into the cart and setting the other box back randomly on the shelf, heart hammering against his sternum all the while. His palms were sweating as he pushed his cart down the aisle, the whispered words following him somehow audible even over the roaring in his ears.

“I don’t understand how he can still be walking around. He had to have been all over the cameras at the hospital. I bet his father destroyed the evidence.”

Stiles pushed his cart off to the side abandoning it and shoving his trembling hands into his pockets as he quickly left the store. One of the cashiers gave him an odd look as he passed and Stiles dropped his gaze to the ground, drawing his hood up and hunching his shoulders to make himself as insignificant as possible to anyone walking by the store.

He was so focused on the ground and getting to his jeep as quick as possible that he didn’t see the person in front of him until they collided. The man was warm and solid, smelled slightly of leather and evergreen and thankfully caught Stiles as stumbled back with a gasp. He probably would have fallen flat on his ass if the other man hadn’t grabbed his arms in a bruising grip and set him back on his feet with a startling amount of ease.

“Stiles?”

And, fuck, Stiles had just plowed right into Derek of all people. “Oh, Derek. Hi,” he said stepping back and extricating himself carefully from Derek’s hands. “Wow. Hi, Derek. Uh, how, how are you?”

“Fine,” Derek said, easing his hands back and regarding Stiles intently. He was quiet a moment then asked, “How are you doing?”

Stiles blinked pushing his hood back just a little. “Uh, fine. I’m fine. You know, just…doing some light shopping.”

Derek arched an eyebrow glancing at Stiles’ obviously empty hands and lack of shopping cart. “Very light apparently.”

“Uh, you know, I forgot my wallet,” Stiles lied forcing a chuckle and uncaring if his heartbeat would give it away; he couldn’t admit to being scared to shop in the fucking supermarket. Derek would be too uncomfortable to call him out on it anyway because everyone was treating him like glass right now. “Got all the way here from home before I realized. Typical me, am I right? Always...always forgetting stuff.”

Derek frowned, obviously picking up on the lie and shifting awkwardly before offering, “I could pay. I mean, if you want me to. I don’t mind. Save you a trip home and back.”

“No!” Stiles protested immediately unable to stomach the thought of Derek overhearing any of the comments. Derek was bound to hear far more than Stiles ever would, and it filled him with a toxic sense of shame to even think of it. “No, it’s okay. Really. Uh. Don’t worry about it.”

Derek opened his mouth as if to reply, and it was probably Stiles’ imagination but the man walking towards them was giving him a pointed glare. “I have to go,” he said pushing past Derek and ignoring the fish-out-of-water startled look on the werewolf’s face.

“What? Wait, Stiles!” Derek said twisting to catch Stiles arm deftly. He didn’t let go, but he did loosen his hold as soon as Stiles pulled away. There was an expression on his face Stiles had never seen there before, at least not directed at solely him. Derek’s voice was gentle, knowing in a way that crawled under Stiles’ skin and made him want to flee. “Are you _sure_ you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said summoning up a smile and pulling his arm fully from Derek’s hand. “I'm fine.”

* * *

Sometimes he talked to himself.

He didn’t like to admit it, didn’t like to acknowledge it at all anymore actually, but sometimes Stiles talked to himself. It wasn’t a new habit by any means—Stiles had been holding full conversations with himself both internally and verbally since he could string two words together—but it took on a whole new sinister feeling after having an evil entity talk to him from the inside for weeks.

The first time he caught himself doing it after being de-possessed he ended up dropping an entire plate of spaghetti on the kitchen floor and spending a several long, tense minutes gasping for air against the counter. All because some internal voice sarcastically called him a dumbass for sticking his fork in the microwave.

In the beginning he hadn’t been able to tell. The Nogitsune’s thoughts had blended in so seamlessly with his own that right up until that night in the MRI a part of Stiles had doubted his own sanity. Even after he’d continuously questioned which thoughts were his own and which belonged to the Nogitsune.

It was proving to have a lasting impact.

He was somewhat surprised, actually, that it took him as long as it did to realize he was second guessing his every thought after he woke up on Scott’s floor. In fact he didn’t realize he was regarding everything in his head with a skeptic suspicion until after they defeated the Nogitsune.

And after he did figure out what he was doing it became an exhausting trial of weighing the validity of anything and everything. All because of a terrifying possibility. It didn’t matter how many times Deaton and everyone else reassured him that there was no demon inside his head anymore; every time a stray thought crossed his mind Stiles quarantined it and tracked down exactly where it came from to make sure it was one-hundred percent Stiles thinking. It was a long and tedious process that left him exhausted and anxious and shaking.

But he did it. Every time.

* * *

“Stiles? Stiles?”

Stiles blinked, refocusing on his friends at the table rather than the far wall of the cafeteria. “Hmm?”

Scott frowned at him. “Do you want to come over tonight?” he asked. “If you feel up to it, of course.”

Lydia was frowning at him too, Stiles noticed. A pinched look of concern on her face while Kira merely looked pensive. Isaac was just picking at his food.

Stiles dropped his gaze to his own food where he’d apparently done his best to murder the meat masquerading as meatloaf with his fork while failing to eat any of it. He let his fork fall to the tray with a frustrated sigh and shoved it away. “Not tonight, Scotty,” he said swallowing roughly. “I’m not feeling that great.”

The thinly veiled expressions of worry were almost enough to make him leave the table.

* * *

Sometimes he got lost in his head. With all the time he spent evaluating his own thoughts it wasn’t surprising that he got lost among them on more than one occasion. He'd chase a thought or start mulling something over and the next thing he knew minutes or hours had passed and someone talking to him. 

It wasn’t the getting lost that bothered him; missing time was more a norm than not for him now.

No, what bothered him was the looks of concern he got when someone had to jog him out of it. The pinched brows and worried eyes he saw when he blinked and realized someone was calling his name. The looks Scott and Lydia had given him earlier; the same look his father was giving him now.

Stiles hated it. 

* * *

“Stiles?”

Stiles blinked, his dad's face drawing into focus along with the rest of the room. Dad's brows were drawn, a small line creased between them. Stiles worried at his lip, glancing discreetly at the clock behind his father’s head to gauge how long he’d been sitting at the table. The food he’d heated up for himself had long gone cold and his father was actually late getting home, not early.

“I thought you said you were going shopping yesterday?” Dad asked after a moment when Stiles said nothing. He was trying to mask the concern, knew Stiles didn’t appreciate it, but it was still there and only partially veiled beneath the words.

Right. Stiles had told him that, and the near empty cupboards clearly indicated he hadn’t. “I, ah, decided on not going,” he said taking his plate to the trash to scrape it clean before setting it in the sink.

Dad sighed and Stiles busied himself picking up a bit around the kitchen as Dad settled into a chair at the table. There were several long minutes of silence before Dad sighed again, a particular sigh Stiles was beginning to learn prefaced conversations neither one of them wanted to have.

“I got a call from the school today,” Dad said finally and there was a note of apology in his tone.

Stiles stilled, glass half lowered into the sink, and swallowed heavily. He glanced at his backpack sitting innocuously in the corner of the room, barely visible from where he stood.

“I’m not mad,” Dad said softly. Stiles bit back the urge to laugh and set the glass heavily in the sink. Dad being mad at him had been the least of his concerns; it hadn’t even occurred to him honestly. “What you went through…a decline in grades is not surprising. You’ll pull them up.”

Stiles let out a shallow breath blinking back sudden tears he didn’t quite understand. He stared at the dishes in the sink, watching the cups and plates blur out of focus. He didn’t hear his dad’s chair creak or the sound of his footsteps as he came into the kitchen behind Stiles. Wasn’t aware of anything until a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, coaxing him around and knocking him free of the swarming thoughts of failure.

“Hey,” Dad said gripping Stiles’ shoulders comfortingly; the warmth that seeped in from his palms was heavenly. “Kiddo, it’s okay, really.”

Stiles shook his head. “I’m failing every class,” he whispered one hand rising to press against his forehead. “I don't…I don’t even know what we’re learning in half of them. Everything from this year is just one big blur.”

Dad frowned one hand moving up to press gently against Stiles’ forehead himself as if to take his temperature. “Maybe I should have pulled you out of school,” Dad murmured. “For the rest of the semester at least. You don’t need to push yourself this hard.”

Stiles let his eyes fall shut and shook his head again. Whether in response to Dad’s first or second statement he wasn’t sure. Dad made another small sound of dissatisfaction or maybe concern, and Stiles tried to pull himself together. He straightened up from where he’d been leaning against the counter for support and tried to summon the semblance of a smile.

“No,” he said. “I’m…it’s okay. I just need some more time to get settled. I’ll have Scott and Lydia help me catch up.”

“Stiles, are you sure?” Dad asked. “School can wait. What’s most important right now is you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said trying to believe the words as much as he wanted his dad to. “I’m sure.”

* * *

Sometimes Stiles wished he could switch places with Allison. He carefully never thought of it as wishing he was dead. That was a line he didn’t want to cross, something he carefully danced around and never addressed. It felt like taking an irrevocable step. But it didn’t stop him from wishing somehow for a distant and vague possibility.

It was less a desire for death and more a desire for cessation of existence. A coma perhaps, would be welcome. All the benefits of being dead with none of the commitment. Stiles was sure he’d heard that joke somewhere.

Sometimes his desire to switch places with Allison came from a seeming altruistic belief that she should have been the one to survive. That she was the one who deserved to keep on living instead of him. That life was a gift she should have been able to enjoy to the fullest.

Other times Stiles was pretty sure she’d gotten the better deal. It was a bitter realization to make, the realization that Stiles was jealous of a dead girl. Resentful even, that she’d escaped the hell their lives had become while he was still entrenched in it. Pushing himself through everything day by day by day.

An hour felt like a day, a day felt like a week, a week stretched as long as a year.

He was exhausted. He wanted it to stop. 

* * *

“ _Freak_.”

It was muttered. Barely audible as Justin shoved past Stiles in the hallway. It still stung.

Stiles eased closer to the lockers working to tamp down on that dark and soul eating ache consuming his chest as he made his way to his next classroom. He was almost there, in sight of the door and carefully counting his footsteps under his breath, when someone slammed into his shoulder knocking him into the lockers. He bit his lip against the white hot flare from where his elbow smashed against the metal of the locker and hunched his shoulders trying to make himself as small as possible.

“Watch it,” someone snapped from beside him.

Stiles twisted around, leveling the other kid with a blank look. Stiles didn’t know him by name, barely knew him by appearance. If asked the most information he could give was that the kid did actually attend the same school as him, but he didn’t think they were in the same grade.

The kid shuffled his feet, uneasy it seemed with the look Stiles was giving him. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said before walking away with a haughty sniff of contempt.

Stiles pulled in a deep breath working to keep calm and centered as he resumed his trek to the class room.

“He should still be in Eichen if you ask me,” someone muttered behind him. Probably the pretty brunette across the hall.

“I know,” her blonde companion whispered. “Just look at him. It’s clear he’s nuts.”

Stiles ducked into his classroom, making a beeline for his seat and slouching as far down as was comfortable. The teacher dropped a piece of chalk on the shelf with a loud clatter, turning while she brushed chalk dust from her hands.

“Mr. Stilinski,” she said as she saw him, lips thinned into a grim line, “do you have your signed sheet for me today?”

Stiles slumped lower in his chair as several other students swiveled to stare at him surreptitiously from the corners of their eyes and slowly shook his head.

* * *

Sometimes a coma, permanent or otherwise, actually sounded nice.

**Author's Note:**

> These are all turning out far shorter than I expected, but when one considers the headspace of the characters and the fact that these six parts take place over a time span of like two weeks, it's really not all that surprising. 
> 
> As always I can be found on tumblr


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